


One Word

by kurukujo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drabbles, One Shot, One Word Prompts, Tumblr Prompt, i guess, just a collection of prompts i did on my tumblr blog, just general discomfort, we're all here to have fun (on the angst train)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 02:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurukujo/pseuds/kurukujo
Summary: A collection of short drabbles featuring various characters, various situations, and points of view.





	1. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Min-Seo's stayed up all night again.

“Looks so nice, huh…”  
     Min-Seo‘s stayed up all night again. It’s not a surprise, it’s something she’s basically accustomed to; like most unhealthy habits she has. No one tells her it’s wrong, so she does nothing to fix it. It’s just regular routine.  
     Her eyes might feel tired and heavy, but she thinks that dragging her feet to look out of the window is still worth it as she longingly gazes as the rising dawn. Her phone—which she’s been typing and looking and doing stuff on until now—is on the bed, with covers scattered about as to testify for a night made of turning around and uncomfortable positions. Her laptop, charging, is laid nearby.  
     Staying away from both is enough to make her forget entirely that the concept of time exists. She’s lost with her mind and her eyes sway within the sky’s warm colors, that slowly but determinatedly engulf the whole city with each minute that ticks on the clock. For some reason, she feels a little _jealous_ ; she doesn’t know _why_ , but the feeling is there. Her stomach grumbles. She ignores it.  
     “I’ll get some water later…”  
     Her mind’s wandering elsewhere as she nearly trips over her loafers while walking towards the fridge—hands aimlessly searching through the scarcely filled fridge for a moment; after looking here and there, she finally gets ahold of the first caffeinated drink she can find (despite saying she would get water instead, which is right beside the can).

“…”  
     She walks in front of the mirror. Eyebags exposed. Eyes groggy with lack of sleep. Roots are showing. A mess, long story short—the sight prompts her to turn with a sprint to go back and sit on her bed once again.  
     “… Oh, yay.” there’s no classes, she confirms as she checks on her phone. _Good._  
     She can tweet about the pretty dawn and stay in bed all day.


	2. Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a very angsty, angry, sad teenage Kaede (that is being a delinquent by staying on the school's roof).

The sky is big.  
     That’s the first thought that passes through her mind as she lays on the cool concrete of the top floor. The wind blows, barely brushing to the side her hair and her clothes, and she’s laying there, numb and limp like a fresh corpse. (She wishes.) The sky is big, the thought insists, and she lets it fill her mind without raising a single word. There’s no reason to, anyways. The sky is big, and sometimes, she wishes that she could be part of it. Leap into its vastness as if it were an ocean, just leave, leave—leave anything material. Leave _everything_.  
     That would be easy, right? Simple. _Bam_. One quick leap, and you’re neck deep in the sky’s waters, she thinks as the breeze’s cool temperature fights with the sun’s soft yet warm light. _This feels nice_ , she thinks. 

“… Shit.” with a sudden jolt of her joints, Kaede brings her back up in a sitting position, sight shifting from the deep blue skies above towards the cityscape; sparse dots decorating the blurred buildings in the far distance. Fuck. How much has she been laying down here? What time is it? Shit. Shit. _Shit_.  
     “… Huh…” she looks at her wristwatch. Five more minutes. Then all club activities will be over, then she’ll have all the school for herself to mess around with, then she’ll be able to spend more time fucking around. It’s way better than going home, she believes. It _feels_ better than home. The wind may be cold, but it’s not as freezing as the ices that linger between those walls. An hand roughly passes through her bangs, messing up even more her already scruffy and misshaped hairstyle (if it can even be called that); the gesture pulls and lets fall some strands, which she can see with no difficulty once the brings the palm in sight. More than the last time. Stress. _More stress_.  
     _Fucking pathetic_ , Kaede thinks.

“Whatever,” a scowl is thrown into the silence that’s surrounding her as her hands reach for her schoolbag: she manhandles it open with a rough motion, and in less than a second, a lit cigarette’s lingering between her lips. Her expression is dark. It always is. It _feels_ that way, at least. Not a single day where it gets brighter. Like a green, grass field that’s slowly dying, someone once described them: and she has to admit that it might be the most accurate description yet. They’re not vast, bright, clear like the sky.  
     … Right. The sky.

Maybe she’ll stay here to witness dusk. Her knees are brought closer to her face, and her arms wrap around her legs. This is her cocoon. This is safe.  
     Just her and the sky. It feels right.


	3. Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He asked for it.

He shouldn’t have been so _careless_.

     Marzanna’s solution is easy: point the finger at him. After all, where is _she_ to blame, considering that she always pampers him with the sweetest of words, the warmest of glaciers, and the softest claws? Considering the effort she makes in not standing out so much between his heavenly, graced creatures? Considering that she always tries to be the worthy, humble wife every shepherd deserves? There’s no guilt stuck in her throat; that’s not the knot that stops her from emitting any sound. It’s not guilt. She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s _not_ , most certainly, guilt.  
     “…” as she stands still, silver droplets falling down her hands, Marzanna blinks. As seconds pass, more and more does she feel her skin become tighter, skinnier, drier—more and more do her thoughts get dark, dark, _dark_. For a moment she felt frightened, but she quickly remembered that this is just what happens when he’s not here. When his bright smiles aren’t here to melt the ice that constantly surrounds and _is_ inside her.  
     “… You shouldn’t have been so careless,” she suddenly hisses, even though she’s aware he cannot hear her. The blood feels fresh on her hands, on her face, on her clothes, but she does nothing if breathe. In, and out. In, and out. Deeply. Slowly. _Slowly…_ “Naive,” she takes a step forward, green grass deteriorating and dying within seconds each footstep she leaves, “Clumsy, reckless,” her growling grows as words keep falling out, “Childish, indecisive, simple, pushover—”

A thud, and she’s fallen on her knees before Jarilo’s limp corpse. She did this. She did this. She killed him. She killed him. And not once, not twice, thrice, but so many times—so many that she cannot possibly count. This is the first of many. This is just the start of a vicious cycle.  
     “— _Unfaithful_ ,”  
     Marzanna claims, but she’s not so convinced of her accusations as her hands, bony, frail hands reach out to caress his hair, which is as soft as wool. Instead of warming her, the sensation brings her to violently grip and pull at the strand she’s holding; her strength raises his bust ever so slightly, but not a flinch. Nor a blink. He looks peaceful, Marzanna thinks, glance and wrinkles dripping with hatred.

_He shouldn’t have been so careless_. Her mouth grimaces.  
     “You unfaithful, disgusting prick.” the Goddess snarls, taking out her anger over a dead man like any pathetic, wounded, prideful being would. She throws kicks, dirtying her black clothes with splatters of shimmering grey as she does so; she grabs him by the collar, uncaring of how useless it is to beat and yank a man whose skin is as cold as her winters. Her mind isn’t quite on the logical track—her mind isn’t here at all. What’s controlling her is unfiltered, genuine, crystal-clear envy. He betrayed her. _He betrayed her._  
     (And much to her dismay, she knows he’ll do it again.)  
     (As her warmth isn’t and will _never_ be enough, is it?)

“You _ᴡᴏʀᴍ_ ,” the pitch of her voice falls with each hit, each wound that she inflicts, nature gradually greying and dying and falling apart and— “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅ ɪ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ,” smack, “ɪꜰ ɴᴏᴛ ᴩᴀᴍᴩᴇʀ, ᴄᴀʀᴇꜱꜱ, ʟᴀᴠɪꜱʜ,” hiss, “ᴀɴᴅ _ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ_ ,” a thud, “ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴀᴍɴᴇᴅ ꜰᴏᴏʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴀᴍ? ᴡʜʏ? ᴡʜʏ?—— _WHY?_ ”  
     Her last yell is agonized, because she is in agony. Everything feels like too much, all of a sudden. “ɪ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏᴄᴋ ᴍᴇ, ᴛᴏʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴇ, ᴅɪsᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇ ᴍᴇ,” Everything feels as if it exists to ridicule her, to make fun of the pathetic, miserable spectacle that she’s offering. “ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪs… _ᴛʜɪs_ … ɪs ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ɢᴇᴛ?”  
      A sharp intake of breath. Her chest hurts, her face hurts, everything hurts.  
     “ɪ ᴛʀʏ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ, ᴀɴᴅ… ᴛʜɪs… this is what I deserve…?”  
     As soon as it came, her thundering tone disappears. Leaving, in its place, the soft, pitiful tapping of an afternoon’s daylight drizzle.  
      _Hurting an already dead man_ , she can hear the voices whisper (the oh! so virtuous voices of the Nev), _a man who you_ cannot _control, who is a deity on his rightful own_ , she grits her teeth. They’re right. And she knows. They speak not an ounce of lies. All they’re saying is true. A God who is way superior, way more conscious, way more reasonable, bones gnaw together as her eyes are now staring at the mess of a dead body before her.  
     _You didn’t deserve him._  
      “No…”  
     He was a castle, “No,” you an ivy, a parasite crawling between its stones and walls, “Stop it,” you are what turned this into nothing more than ruins.  
     “ _Stop it…!_ ” (a whine. Her legs jerk to the side, barely managing to keep standing as they feel an unexpected weight pull them down.)

_You loved him to ruin, and ruins are what you’ll get._  
     “ʜᴇ’s _ᴍɪɴᴇ—!_ ” the remains are. With a last blow, Marzanna ultimately cannot keep her undeserved stance, and flops onto the rotten, ice-cold ground; ungracefully sprawled across the once-green field, not too far from where she’d dropped Jarilo’s corpse moments ago. She doesn’t fight it. It’s useless.  
     “ʜᴇ’s ᴍɪɴᴇ… ʜᴇ’s ᴍɪɴᴇ… mine…” exhaustion is slowly getting to her: this is where her punishment kicks in, right? This is where Veles has his chance to discipline her. This is where she will repent for her crimes once again, forever again, repeatedly, with no means to escape. The first of many times. The first of many, many, _many_ more to come.  
     “…”

She cannot even recognize his face anymore, after all the damage she’s inflicted. Her gaze, stripped of its rage and despair, is nothing more than shallow and empty. Maybe she should cry. But she never did, and she doesn’t wonder why that should change now.  
      After all, he should’ve been less careless.  
      Like she should have been more careful.


	4. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That kid, Momoko ponders, barely realizing what’s going on in the real world as she marches on, that kid… too much.  
> She’s too much like…

It’s a weird sensation. Not unfamiliar; but it’s been long since she’s felt it brush against her skin. Momoko is not used to softness. In general, she might as well admit that with time, she’s grown to dislike it due to various reasons—two of them being that she’s grown rough, and that she’s become sandpaper. Scraping her hands against anything tender might simply _ruin_ it. (Sticking around rotten things makes her feel less conscious about it.)  
     Yet, every time she walks by a flower shop, she can’t help but stop. And stare. For a good few minutes. Which is what happened just now.  
     All the memories—all that she remembers—which she claims to be obscured play like an old, corrupted videotape in the back of her mind: the scratchy VHS sounds and glitches keeping her from walking further away, they come back from the trusty drawers in which she’d closed them after the last session, and start to haunt her. Quite literally. Her left eye twitches, and her lips grimace. Her gaze is both in the real world and swallowed by her subconscious, not quite there. The more she keeps her eyes locked on those hydrangeas the more she can feel the corners within her sight darken, blurry, confused, fuzzy—

“Eh, Chihiro-tan, stop whining. See? We’ve arrived to your favourite flower shop!”  
     “Mamaaaa, but I want _ice cream_ …”  
     —Voices snap her out of her trance, making her realize that she’d been standing there since at least five minutes. Behind the shop’s window Momoko can, with enough squinting and focus, make out the disgruntled and vaguely perplexed expression of the owner, who immediately snatches his glance away as soon as he hears ( _ding ding ding_ , it’s the bell on the entrance door) and sees new customers step in. His expression melts, she notices, as he lays his eyes down on the child that’s being accompanied by an older woman, likely her mother.  
     Momoko doesn’t like this. She prefers silence. It’s muffled, but she can detect the ringing laughter of the little girl. Her eye twitches once again. A sharp inhale.  
     “Come on, Chihiro-tan,” the mother says, “See? Look at this pretty flower. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” (crouching down, she hands a small pot to her daughter, who hesitantly holds it goofily as children usually do.)  
     “Hum… it’s cute…” a picky kid, Momoko irritatedly thinks. _Just talk already_. “But I saw prettier flowers outside…”  
     “Hmmm? Like what flowers? Wanna show them to me?”  
     “Okay!”

_Ah._ They’re going to get out.  
     She’s still standing there. Momoko, pitifully, has become _engrossed_ in ~~overhearing~~ witnessing everything this mother and daughter will end up doing in the exact spot where she’d decided to touch and analyze her favourite flowers. Even though she’s aware that this is not a place for her to claim, she feels as if they’ve invaded her territory. Thus, as such, she wants to monitor their every move, no matter how naive they might be. (You never know.)  
     Maybe she should step aside, leave some space for the two individuals to move; but Momoko decides against it, instead keeping her stance firm right in front of the shelf where hydrangea pots of all varieties are placed. Her hand is still reaching out to feel the petals, which are soft… tender… more tender than the others’. She tried to find good contenders, but up until now, only hydrangeas really feel this way to her.  
     The door’s bells chirp once again, their sound dying easily and quickly.  
     “Show me, Chihiro-tan! If you like those flowers so much,” the woman winks at the kid, “You can have it, okay?”  
     “Yay~!!” the kid seems positively excited about the proposal, but she easily sneaks a mischievously pout after her exclamation, “… but what about ice-cream?”   
     A drained, but defeated sigh is emitted right after.  “It seems I have no way to distract you from that, huh…” she pauses, before patting her daughter’s head. “ _Fine_ , we can have ice-cream too. But first let’s see the flowers.”  
     Momoko tenses. She’s still staring at the hydrangeas, but she’s also dying of curiosity. She wants to see what this girl looks like. Her voice’s not the same, it’s barely similar, but the way she acts, _it’s…_  
     “U-um,” she can hear a stutter, and that still isn’t enough to have her turn her head. “Those… those flowers…” the glee in the child’s voice has disappeared within seconds, and Momoko initially wonders why, but only for a split second before she can hear the girl mutter:

… _Where the creepy lady is standing_ …  
     _That’s right_ , is her first thought. But she still doesn’t move, not even after having been basically imputed as a nuisance. She’s not here to buy flowers, she’s just been standing and staring and breathing uselessly since minutes, now. What reason is behind her presence? The kid is scared, isn’t she? What’s her _problem?_  
     Her fingers eventually take a gentle hold of a petal, before ripping it off the flower with a swift, harsh motion. The little girl gasps when she does that, but her mother doesn’t seem to notice it, although she does look concerned (upon having noticed Momoko as well). Nevertheless, after making sure “Chihiro-tan” is okay, and after propping her upon her forearm, she stands and begins to approach. _A mediocre middle-aged woman._  
     “Excuse me,” she politely initiates, “Could you please let us see the flowers?” there’s seemingly no passive aggressiveness in the way she talks, but Momoko’s eye still twitches. Slowly, she turns her head to face the stranger, whose expression abruptly turns grim at the mere sight.  
     (That’s right. I’m the creep. _You better be fucking scared_.)  
     Momoko’s eyes eventually lay on the daughter—her curiosity’s dying to know—and the breath in her throat hitches as soon as she registers that the kid has a pixie cut. No pigtails.  
     What a shame.  
     “… Ah, me?” Momoko says, slowly, faking ignorance. The woman nods, trying to evidently keep her composure. “…” her own eyes fall on the petal that she’s ripped from the hydrangea which she had been caressing since not long ago. “… This is a beautiful flower,” her croaky voice spells out, dirty nails probing at the fragile texture of the petal almost brutally, “To appreciate it, you ought to cherish it everyday.”  
     “…”  
     “…  Sorry. I’ll move.”  
     Politeness isn’t her strong suit, and it shows. Nonetheless, Momoko can’t stay there any more, since mantaining her presence there might eventually prompt the shop owner to step outside and confront her. She doesn’t need that waste of time. All she wanted to do was to look at her favourite flower, feel its softness, let the memories linger…  
     … It’s that child’s fucking fault, Momoko reasons as she walks away, mumbling and growling under her breath as her hands are shoved inside her coat’s pockets. The petal she grabbed before is nothing more than light blue remnants scattered on the sidewalk by now. That kid, Momoko ponders, barely realizing what’s going on in the real world as she marches on, _that kid…_ too much. _She’s too much like…_

Her thoughts are interrupted as soon as she reaches the subway station.


	5. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve got to be your own private detective, then…

“Do you know what freedom feels like?”  
     “… Huh? What kind of question is that?”  
     “Don’t try to avoid it! I _know_ you know. You’ve been in a lot of homes, I know that. You _must_ be aware of what it’s like.”  
     “You mean freedom…?”  
     “Yeah! Like I said, I know you know. Don’t try to deceive me. I’m good at detecting lies, you know?”  
     “I get it, but it’s a stupid question. How would I know about freedom? Us _orphans_ —we aren’t really free. Like, we’ll never be.”  
     “…”  
     “It’s the truth, that’s what it is. Don’t pout like that.”  
     “It’s a disappointing truth, then.”  
     “I said stop pouting. It’s just how it works! Adults don’t want us ‘cause we’re what we are. That’s our cage, you know? Freedom’s nowhere to be seen for us. You gotta realize that.”  
     “… But that’s no fair. It’s just—not fair. Why?”  
     “Why what?”  
     “Why can’t we be free?”  
     “Hey, don’t get too philosophical. How old are you?” brows furrow. “Ten? _Eleven?_ You shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff.”  
     “—I’m asking you because you’re fifteen! You’re _old!_ You know things! I want to know the things you know!”  
     “Just because I’m older—which I’m _not_ , by the way, I’m not thirty—it doesn’t mean I know everything. Plus, you can’t trust me on things like… freedom. A lot of families just means a lot of problems. And burdens.”  
     “ _Bur-dens?_ What’s that?” a tilt to the side, “It sounds like a chocolate thing…”  
     “…  ? What?”  
     “Like, you know, sweet. Like chocolate! Made of chocolate. If that’s what happens with a lot of families, I want that!”  
     “Ah, no—no—” a snort, “No, _burdens_ aren’t sweets made of chocolate. They’re… hm… Imagine there’s some weights.”  
     “Uh-huh.”  
     “These weighs are kind of heavy. But you can’t see them, okay? They’re weights that you’ve gotta carry on your shoulders,” hands gesticulate along, to give a clearer image, “That’re made of things you don’t exactly know, and they’re there for reasons unknown to you. Even if you don’t know, you _have_ to carry them all by yourself.”  
     “Eeeeh, that sounds so tiring…!”  
     “It is. Really tiring, right? Plus it’s all confused and mysterious…”  
     “Mysteries are cool, though!”  
     “No, but they’re not mysterious like an Agatha Christie novel. If Poirot could resolve the burdens I have, it’d be plenty fun,” and painful, “But life is not a novel. So it’s no cool mystery.”  
     “No cool mystery…” a nod.  
     “You’ve gotta fix those unknown things yourself, you know. It’s hard.”  
     “Hmm. It’s _very_ hard.” another agreeing nod.  
     “It really is. Which is why… I hope you never end up going through so much families as I did. These burdens… can really get to you. I think. I don’t know. I’m not a wise wizard.”  
     “—but you _could_ be.”  
     “Eh? Wha—why?”  
     “You’ve got the face of a wizard. I dunno! I can see you with the long white beard and the big sleeves and hat, it’s funny!” she’ll have to draw that.  
     “… It sounds incredibly silly.”  
     “If it’s funny, it’s funny. You just haven’t seen it from my perspective yet!”  
     A soft laughter follows. It’s not hers, though. She just keeps sitting, smiling pridefully.  
     “… I’ll give it to you, you’re really influential with your smiles.”  
     “In-flu… en-ti-al?”  
     “I mean, you’re contagious when you’re happy.”  
     “Oh! Like, uh, the black plague?”  
     “If… that helps you understand. Yes, like the black plague.”  
     “Oooooh, that’s so cool! My smiles are like the plague! Cool! _Cool!_ ”  
     “… Really, you’re something else.”  
     “I’ll take that as a compliment!”  
     “I guess it can be.”  
     Silence lingers for a moment, as they both look up at the night sky. Not even the owls are hooting tonight. It’s just them, the moon, and the stars. And the cold.  
     She hesitates for a moment before asking again,  
      “… So, in the end… you’re not the right person to ask about freedom, right?”  
     “Hmm-mh. Right.”  
     “So we’re gonna be like… caged as orphans forever, huh. Like we’re criminals.”  
     “Probably.”  
     “… That’s sad…”  
     “I know. But—listen, well—don’t let it get to you too much.”  
     “I mean, but you said…”  
     “What I said is what I said, but I’m _also_ going to add that no matter your “cage” you’re still you. That’s way more important than you being an orphan, okay? Be proud of the creepy kid that you are.”  
     “… Uh. Hm.” a pause. “O… kay! I will be. I’ll… try.” it’s not like she’s not usually proud, but…  
     … This just touches home.

“Alright. Uh, I think it might be a little late now.”  
     “Oh, it’s definitely late!”  
     “We gotta go to bed.”  
     “… Eeh…”  
     “Come on, Anna. You don’t want the nuns to punish us.”  
     “… Nope. Don’t want that.”  
     “Then let’s go.”

Without lamenting much more, the kids both stand up and walk inside, trying not to make the floor tiles creak as they step towards their own common rooms. Annaliese doesn’t sleep much; by the time she can feel herself fall into slumber, she’s managed to snatch a view of the early dawn.  
 _You’ve got to be your own private detective, then…_

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting here some prompts I did on my tumblr RP blog that were pretty cool and that I kind of like. Nothing much else!


End file.
